


Against the Wall

by yet_intrepid



Series: Hurt/Comfort December [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bobby's Panic Room, Detox, Gen, Hallucinations, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:03:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2758943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detox is going to kill him, Sam thinks, in one of those moments when he can identify the panic room, the situation, the cause. But then, maybe he’ll deserve it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> December 9 prompt: hallucinations.

Sometimes, Sam knows where he is. Why he’s there. Why he feels this way.

Other times he only knows that he’s shivering, covered in sweat. That his heart is racing and sluggish by turns. That his blood feels like it’s burning in his veins. That his mouth is dry no matter how many times he struggles over to the pitcher and his head is throbbing and fuzzy, hardly even a part of him but hurting all the same.

Detox is going to kill him, he thinks, in one of those moments when he can identify the panic room, the situation, the cause. But then, maybe he’ll deserve it.

He feels himself fading, his head falling down on his chest as he sits with his back against the wall.

Then there’s the sound of a heavy footstep.

Sam swings his head up again to look, senses hyper-alert,  breath coming short and fast. He didn’t hear the door open but there’s someone in the room and Sam hardly gets a glimpse but he knows the posture. Whoever it is, they’re a threat.

Sam scrambles to his feet, casting desperately about for something to defend himself with. Magazines. Water pitcher. Table, bolted to the wall. There’s nothing. Nothing. He throws up his hands to grapple if he has to and then raises his head to get a good look at his opponent.

Boots. Jeans. Knife in the right hand. Plaid shirt, canvas jacket.

Sam swallows, bracing himself to look up at the man’s face. But before he can, he’s under attack.

The knife swipes high towards his neck but his hands are there and he grabs at the knife hand with both of his, twisting, grappling. Trying to get the guy bent over so he can use the leverage of his leg or the floor to help him wrest away the blade. But even though Sam’s taller, he’s up against muscle mass and damn but it’s not easy.

Detox is going to kill him, he thinks, and then, what?

There’s no time to sort it out. No time for anything but reflexes and angles and pressure, tracking that sharp edge and pushing it away from his body. They circle around, locked together, and Sam thinks he can get the guy backed up against the wall but at the last second it flips and he’s the one pinned, his two hands still squeezing tight to keep that knife away from him. But now he can’t move away from the guy’s left anymore and he knows the fist is coming.

He pushes back as hard as he can but no. No. He’s trapped. Out of breath and scared as hell, he looks away from the knife for the first time. Might as well know who’s killing him.

And then he’s sick to his stomach.

He should have known. Should have known it was Dad, from the boots to the jacket to the grappling moves. Should have known it was Dad, because Dean didn’t outright kill him for going dark side, so Dad’s come back to finish the job. Fix their fuck-ups. Let them know how much they suck.

“Dad,” Sam says. Doesn’t know what good he thinks it’ll do, but it slides out of his mouth anyway, small and sad.

Dad stares at him. Sam’s never felt so hated before.

“No demon’s bitch gets to call himself my son,” Dad says. “Should’ve seen it coming. We all should’ve. You’ve been headed this way since you were six months old.”

The knife inches closer. Sam’s not sure he can keep his grip.

“Dad,” he says again. “I’m sorry—”

Dad laughs under his breath. “ _Sorry_ quit doing the job a long time ago, Sam.”

And that’s when the punches start landing. His mouth fills up with blood after the first two and he knows this won’t end until he lets go of that knife. Except that’s when it really will end. He wouldn’t kill Dad, years ago, but Dad’s gonna kill him now.

Maybe they were always different after all.

Dad’s fist is still hammering down and Sam can hardly breathe but he doesn’t see a way out.

Detox is going to kill him.

When he finally lets go of the knife, he doesn’t die. He finds himself alone, up against the wall with a massive headache and no trace that Dad was ever there.


End file.
